


Canteen Gossip

by Marquesate, TABrown



Series: Nil Desperandum [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Action, Established Relationship, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Missions, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquesate/pseuds/Marquesate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TABrown/pseuds/TABrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Canteen Gossip</i> continues Bond's and Q's story after <i>Vita Mortis</i>. Bond is the "Scary Evaluator", and he thrives in his new role, until the past catches up with him - but Q is never far away, and always a voice in his ear.<br/></p><p>
You should read <i>Vita Mortis</i>, the first part of the series, to understand the premise of this sequel. 

 <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All tags, ratings, characters and notes refer to the entirety of this fictional work, not to individual chapters.

Agent Lucy Beauchamp had been attempting to convince herself to eat the limp pre-packaged chicken salad in front of her (all that was left in the canteen which wasn’t deep fried, and the chips became more tempting by the second), when Tom arrived with news - and his new tablet.

“Look,” he shoved it under her nose, “they put it on the training web!”

Lucy grabbed the tablet and watched the short video entitled “Never underestimate your opponent.” It showed a young, dark haired man taking a swing at an older, blond man with one arm in a sling, immediately followed by the older one moving in a blur to take the young one down.

“Idiot,” she snorted, before asking: “do you know what’s happened to Dicky?” The Hon Richard Charles Fotherington-Grey, easily the most obnoxious creature she had ever dealt with, and there had been plenty between Roedean, Cambridge, the FCO and the SIS.

Tom, his affable appearance hiding the necessary rat-cunning for their chosen careers, shook his head. “But I’d be surprised if we see him here again.” He paused, but was clearly wanting to get the next sentence out, “what was it like, with 007?”

“He’s not 007 anymore,” Lucy corrected, as she hit replay. “And it wasn’t really ‘with’ – he was evaluating me in Hong Kong, and he was pretty nice about it.”

“ _Nice_?”

“Considering we got into a fire fight in Mongkok, startled the Chinese Secret Service and set up a gods-awful mess with the Politburo just before the change of power, yes, he was pretty nice about it.”

Tom sat down next to her. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Rumour has it he recommended you for the double-O feeder programme if you pass combat training. Apparently he had a fight with the Director about it, when the Director wanted to put you into Analysis.”

It took Lucy several minutes for this to sink in, food and Tom forgotten.

Unnoticed, the black and white cat that was resident in Q branch jumped up onto the table. He daintily ate the chicken off Lucy’s salad, then retreated under the table, seeking out his next course.

Startled by the heavy thud of Mr Turing returning to the floor, she shook herself like a dog caught in the rain. “The double-O programme?”

“That’s the rumour,” Tom confirmed. “Now spill. What’s he like? We all know what’s in the archives is just the tip of the iceberg and the last thing I’d want to do is piss him off when I get him.”

“He’s cool.”

“Cool?” Tom repeated with disbelief.

She shrugged, “that’s the first thing that came to my mind. He’s cool.”

Tom frowned sceptically. “He’s the most legendary agent still alive, has actually been killed several times, and all you can say is that he’s _cool_?”

“Yes,” Lucy stabbed at her salad, but it really did look unappetising, especially since the chicken had vanished. She settled for stealing a few chips off Tom’s plate of ‘seafood surprise.’ Tom let her, and even pushed the little packet of tartar sauce in her direction, encouraging her to continue. “He just keeps calm no matter what’s happening. It’s as though he knows exactly what to do, no matter what comes up, and he can play any role. We were pretending to be father-and-daughter on the trip and he even made bad dad jokes when we could be overheard.”

“Okay, that’s weird. That’s really weird.” Tom shook his head. “What did you do to make him sing your praise to M? You have to have some tips for dealing with him.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t know, really. I just did what they tell us to do whenever working with a senior agent. Do the reading and research first, ask questions and request clarification. I think establishing character was important. I didn’t know if he was going to be sensitive about his arm, but saying I was his daughter meant it made sense that I was fetching the luggage carts at the airport and stuff. At least until I got injured. I guess you shouldn’t make an issue about the arm, and if you’re concerned about him, concoct some sort of cover – a son, a flunky or whatever. And – if Dicky is any guide – don’t hit him.”  
  
“I don’t think anyone needs to be concerned about him. Not after watching this video.” Tom tapped the tablet for emphasis. “But what about himself? I mean...” he hesitated, “is he gay do you think?”

Lucy blinked. “Didn’t ask. He certainly didn’t try it on with me,” she paused, “and I don’t think he’d try it with anyone he’s evaluating.”

“Did he try it on with anyone else? I mean, he’s legendary for having slept with hundreds of targets and collaterals throughout his double-O career.”

“No, not during my evaluation, but we didn’t get much of a chance. Maybe he doesn’t unless there’s a need.”

“He is together with Q, isn’t he?” Tom wasn’t sure, and neither was anyone else amongst the junior agents.

“I don’t know,” Lucy shrugged. “Q still runs Commander Bond personally so they were in contact the whole time.”

Tom looked thoughtful, while absently offering a fried prawn to the fat black and white cat that had appeared on the chair next to him. “I guess hitting on him is a sure-fire way to get your arse wiped?” he mused.

“Probably,” Lucy half-shrugged. “It’s a wonder that thing isn’t too fat to walk,” she meant the cat, which had taken the prawn and was chewing on it noisily. “Why are you so interested?”

“I’m going to have Commander Bond as my evaluator next week,” Tom heaved a sigh, “and I’m scared shitless.”

Lucy gave a low whistle. “Good luck,” she said sincerely, “he was great with me, but I can see why Dicky would have pissed him off. Just be alert, don’t do anything stupid, and practice your shooting, just in case.”

“Okay,” Tom nodded to himself, “don’t make any disparaging comments about Q-branch, let alone Q; don’t mention his or anyone else’s sexuality, and don’t bring up the arm. Ever. Anything else?”

“Don’t admit to liking cats.” She looked significantly at the creature that was licking its whiskers.

“Ah, shit, okay. What about dogs?”

“Don’t know – didn’t come up. Why are you so worried anyway? What makes him worse than any other evaluator?”

“You kidding me, right? It’s _Bond_! It’s 007! He’s a bloody legend.”

“He’s still human. Barely,” Lucy admitted, “but that probably makes him a better evaluator.”

“Okay, yes, but he _died_. Several times! And he’s still here and unbeatable.”

“Which is probably why they have him do evaluation and not paper-pushing or mouldering away in an MI6 retirement home in Brighton,” a third voice interrupted, belonging to Joseph, another of the junior agents. He took the seat on the other side of the cat. “Bond’s a bloody hard marker, did you hear what he said about Greg?”

Greg had been the very first to be evaluated by Bond. Greg, who had virtually memorised all the procedure manuals.

“No, what did he say?” Tom leaned forward eagerly.

“That he was so dull, the only chance he’d have of succeeding in a kill mission was to bore his target to death.” Joseph was as bad as any gossip.

Tom slumped. “I’m doomed,” he moaned. “I’m probably being sent to retrieve some microchip from Madagascar and I’ll make a hash of it and end up filing requisitions in Botswana for the next forty years.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Botswana,” a deep, slightly gravelly voice suddenly cut across. Sending most of the junior agents - except for Lucy - nearly sprawling. How the hell Bond had approached them so stealthily was a mystery.

“Commander Bond,” Lucy greeted him, while the young men almost cowered. “How was Monaco?”

“Not as interesting as last time.” Bond was deftly balancing a tray one-handed, carrying food that definitely hadn’t been made in the canteen; plus a cup of what smelled like proper coffee. “No motorcycle rides, I’m afraid.” He placed the tray on the table, and sat down without further ado, as if he’d been invited. “Gentlemen?” he gave a slight nod to the two juniors, before grimacing in disgust as he briefly caught sight of his evil feline arch nemesis.

“This is Joseph and this is Tom, Sir.” Lucy made the introductions as Tom looked somewhere between terror and awe. “You’ll be evaluating Tom next week.”

Bond nodded. “Tom Jacobs, twenty-three, Northern Irish, aspiring junior agent.”

Tom’s jaw dropped open but he had the presence of mind not to ask how Bond had known – considering Bond very probably had been given his file already. He settled for an awestruck: “Yes, Sir.”

Silence, before Joseph scraped up the courage to ask, “how’s the jaw, Sir?”

Bond blinked, and this was enough to send all of them into a terrified panic, even Lucy.

Bond remained absolutely still, then flashed a grin. “Less battered than Dicky’s pride.”

There was a collective exhalation of relief around the table.

“There you are!” The Quartermaster’s voice was the second surprise of the day. “Thanks for looking after him,” Q addressed Joseph, and leaned down to pick up Mr Turing. Bond directed a deadly glare at the young agent in question, who shrank into his chair.

“Are you now recruiting hapless juniors for your evil overlord?” Bond reached out, casually touching Q’s hip as he stood beside him.

“Nothing of the sort, but I need him for an experiment.”

“Who, Joseph?” Bond gave a smirk that seemed truly terrifying to the juniors.

Q looked over the muscular young man, who was still shrinking into his seat. “Too big,” he said thoughtfully, “never get a set of reliable figures.”

“Shame, you could start a new research branch.”

“Stop scaring them, Bond,” Q scolded. Mr Turing rubbed his head against Q’s shoulder, purring, while somehow managing to simultaneously cast a malevolent gaze at Bond.

“What makes you think I scare anyone? I’m only being a kind Evaluator who is socialising over lunch with some of the junior agents.” Bond smiled at each of them in turn, which terrified them even worse.

Q’s narrowed eyes made it clear he wasn’t fooled one bit, but that he would let the issue drop for the sake of lunchtime peace. “Jacobs, come to Q branch after lunch, we need to get your measurements on file.” With that he settled Mr T firmly into his arm and left.

Bond returned to his delicious looking seafood salad, taking a few bites before addressing Tom. “Looking forward to your mission?”

“Yes Sir,” Tom choked out, “anything you would like me to prepare for you, Sir?”

“I expect you to come up with a good cover story for yourself and for me, once you’ve been given the mission brief.”

Tom nodded. “Yes, Sir, I will, Sir.”

Bond nodded and started on his lunch.

* * * * *

Lucy could hear the frantic typing of keys a few days later as she walked past Tom’s cubicle. “What’s up?” she asked, sticking her head over the partition.

“I got my mission brief.” Tom’s face was a picture of pain.

“That bad? Sudan? Eritrea? Antarctica?”

“Phuket, Thailand,” Tom grimaced, “something to do with ladyboys.”

“Is one of them your informant or something? Phuket’s really nice, a bit touristy though. I went diving there last year.”

“Apparently there’s information to be exchanged. I’m there to interrupt it, and the informants are thought to be part of a travelling ladyboy show, whose main base is a gay resort.”

Lucy burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s classic. What’s your cover going to be? Remember, you have Commander Bond tagging along, too, so you need to think up a cover for him as well.”

“I don’t know yet.” The colour of Tom’s face was rapidly changing into a bright red.

“I bet you do. Ten quid it’s the same one I’m thinking of: the most obvious one.”

“Please don’t say it,” Tom cringed.

“Oh, come on, I played his daughter, surely you can play his boytoy, or whatever they are called now. Personal trainer?” She craned her head to catch a glimpse of the resort on Tom’s screen, and gave a low whistle. “That’s _nice._ Take advantage of the expense account, I’m told very few missions are in fab places – we seem to have both got lucky with the posh hotels.”

“But…!” Tom poked frantically at a photo of one of the lavish hotel rooms. “There’s only one bed! And it’s a _gay_ hotel! With lots of gays!”

“So? I was in a conference hotel with lots of conference attendees who were selling state secrets. Granted, the Commander and I had a two bedroom suite, but there’s nothing stopping you from that. They really do give us a real allowance for the evaluation mission.” She paused, “and if you are worried about people hitting on you, you could always say you and the Commander are exclusive.”

“I can tell you what’s stopping me from booking a two bedroom suite,” Tom shot back, “there aren’t any in that bloody hotel, and wouldn’t it look rather suspicious if we were to go with the boytoy cover story but booked two bedrooms?”

“Fair enough,” Lucy conceded, “but it’s not as though anything would happen…well, unless…but that’s quite unlikely. Have you seen the Commander?”

“What? What are you hinting at?” Tom shuddered visibly. “Did you really just hint at Commander Bond trying to…” he shut up, staring wide-eyed and panicked.

“Do tell, what might I try?” Bond’s voice rumbled too close to them. Of course. Of bloody course.

“Nothing, nothing!” Tom spluttered, throwing himself back and getting trapped by the flimsy wall, as Lucy did the same thing on the other side. “Just doing some research, Sir, for the mission, Sir.”

“You do know that claiming ‘nothing’ in such a panicked way is indicative of the exact opposite; and you do know that displaying such extreme agitation as you are doing right now is something you need to learn to suppress at all costs – unless useful for the mission. Don’t you?”

There were frantic nods from both young agents.

“Good.” Bond gave a sharp nod back.

Tom managed to get himself back together. “I was doing some research on the location of the information exchange at the Antonius Resort, and I thought that the most effective cover would be to stay at the resort as guests. It will give us time to investigate the place and we wouldn’t be questioned if we were wandering around.”

“Good thinking,” Bond nodded. “Continue, what details for our cover have you come up with?”

“It’s a…um, specialist resort, catering for gay men,” Tom ran his words together, “I was thinking that you could go in as a wealthy executive, and I’d be, um, officially your personal trainer or masseur.” Tom was bright red with embarrassment.

“Good thinking once more.” Bond’s inscrutable facial expression helped to calm Tom’s embarrassment. “I expect you to flesh out all the details and brief me with your concept of the roles we are to play. Things such as behaviour, clothing, back story, etc. I also expect you to organise everything in advance.” Bond straightened up. “Get back to me within twenty-four hours with the complete plan.” When he took his leave, a fleeting smirk crossed his face, completely destroying the illusion of indifference.

Tom sagged back into his chair, groaning in desperation. “Oh God,” he muttered, once Bond was out of sight and sound, “he’s enjoying that.”

“And how!” Lucy echoed. “Do you want the name of my day spa and hairdresser? You’ll need a few coats of fake tan and some really obvious highlights in your hair if you’re going to be a convincing boytoy personal trainer.”

“You are kidding me, aren’t you? I’m not going to put highlights into my hair.”

“Well, you definitely have to get waxed, then. And groomed. All over.” She took obvious delight in tormenting him.

The look of horror on Tom’s face matched his tone. “You’re. Not. Serious.”

“I am deadly serious. You are fit, aren’t you? So you would show off, which makes total sense for a ‘personal trainer’. If Commander Bond is your sugar daddy, then he’d have hired you for your looks, not for your brains, and he’d want to show off his eye-and-arm candy.”

“You’re enjoying this as much as he is,” Tom accused her.

“I had to dress like Pippa Middleton for my Eval,” Lucy sniffed. “I’m just glad someone has it worse.”

“I’d rather dress like Prince William than pretend I’m gay. How the hell do I do that anyway? I’m not going to fondle Commander Bond, I’m really not.” Tom buried his face in his hands, groaning, “oh my God.”

“You’re the toy boy, you’re not the one doing the fondling,” Lucy didn’t sound at all comforting. “He isn’t really touchy from what I can tell, if that’s what you’re worried about. Too busy watching for hostiles.” She held out a hand as though to pull Tom up from his chair. “We should go, and we need to stop by the bookshop so that Commander Bond has stuff like ‘Death in Venice’ in his holiday reading material.”

“Is that some gay novel?” Tom took her hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. “I think I’m not going to enjoy the next twenty-four hours, nor any of the ones after that.” He heaved a sigh, but accepted his fate. If he wanted to become an agent, he had to prove that he would be able to handle any situation.

Even Commander Bond as a sugar daddy.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom tried hard not to fidget as the plane touched down at Phuket International Airport. His outfit – smart linen trousers, shirt, and blazer – was just a smidgen too tight, and he still hadn’t got used to the sensation of clothes against his waxed skin.

 “Tom,” Bond lowered his voice, “stop looking like a deer in headlights, it’s a giveaway.” They had exited the plane.

Tom lowered his eyes, and said meekly for the benefit of anyone listening: “Yes, Sir.” He shouldered both their cabin bags, and followed Bond through Immigration and Customs. He tried not to react to the appreciative looks he got while bending over the luggage carousel for their suitcases, but couldn’t help being startled when Bond placed a possessive hand on his hip, as they walked to the hire car station, Tom pushing their trolley.

“So,” Bond murmured close to Tom’s ear, “what’s the story for my arm?”

“Sticking to your usual speedboat accident cover, Sir. Only we met when you were getting rehab, I was a spa attendant at your pricey retreat, and you decided to hire me exclusively. We’ve been together since, and you’ve put me through Personal Trainer and Masseur courses, and you like to maintain the fiction because you’re working in a conservative industry.”

“Excellent, and what is my conservative industry?” Bond patted Tom’s hip in combination of avuncular and possessive – and completely obvious.

“Oil.” Tom said simply, only tensing a little. “Banking is getting more open-minded, so that was out.”

“Good,” Bond approved, “did you book one of the suites?”

“Yes, I did. The one with the view of the entrance.”

They had almost reached the hire car station, when Bond asked the next question. “I hope you are not planning to sleep on the couch?”

Caught, Tom barely held back a grimace.

“Do you know how observant room service are with the right incentive?” Bond asked.

“Very?” Tom tried.

“Indeed, very.”

“Sleeping on the couch would make things too suspicious if they have bugs. Right, Sir?”

“Correct.”

They walked the last few yards in silence.

When they picked up the keys, Bond demanded to swap the originally booked vehicle to a Mercedes.

Tom looked at him in confusion, until it dawned on him that any possibility of the car being bugged would thus be eliminated. He loaded the bags, and then held open the passenger door for Bond, who haltingly accepted that he really ought to play the passenger. One-armed sugar daddies didn’t tend to be the drivers. He slipped into the passenger seat, needing some time to buckle the safety belt, but Tom knew better than to offer help.

Soon they headed off south towards the resort. It was a short drive, and they arrived at the discreet, but luxurious entrance. Tom took a deep breath before preparing to exit the car.

“Agent Jacobs,” Bond held him back. “Are you more worried about acting as my toy boy than about the mission?”

Tom gave a strained smile. “I never was much good at acting, Sir, and it’s not something they teach in training. It’s just not quite what I was expecting for a first mission, not when I was recruited out of the Guards and not the FCO like some of the others.”

Bond nodded thoughtfully. “I’m not an ogre, and I’m not here to make you fail. I’m here to evaluate and stay in the background – but also to ensure the mission is successful. You’ll get used to slipping into roles eventually, but you have to start somewhere. Just follow my lead, that way you only need to react and observe. Imagine I pay you large amounts of money to call me Sir, and to do exactly what I tell you. In- and outside of the bed. I pay for your services, and I order you around. Does that help?”

Tom exhaled with relief. “Oh _yes_ , Sir.” He fell silent as one of the staff approached the car and opened the door for him to step out. Bond watched as Tom slipped into his role, directing the staff to the luggage at the back, and hurrying around to Bond’s side of the car.

By that time Bond had undone the safety belt and got out of the car with a nod to his toy boy. “I’ll sign in, make sure the luggage arrives in the suite just as I like it.” With that he sent Tom scurrying off, while a valet took over parking the car.

When Bond arrived at their room, taking things at a leisurely pace (while listening to Tom communicating to Q-branch over his feed, under the guise of talking to himself), their luggage had already arrived, together with the welcome drinks. Tom had drawn the blinds and was carefully going over the room for bugs with dogged diligence.

Bond was sipping his drink, debating if he should tune into Q, when Tom held up a hand, pointing at the corner of a large art frame near the bed. Bond raised a brow, mouthing ‘bug’? and Tom nodded.

Bond mouthed ‘leave it’, which was met with a confused look, but the junior agent obeyed the order.

“It’s time you get out of your clothes. I’m not paying you to let me guess at your body.” Bond affected the tone of an equally arrogant, demanding, and stinking rich man, who knew he could afford anything he wanted, including buying another human’s compliance.

There was a momentary hesitation as Tom obeyed. “Yes, Sir,” he said, softly but loud enough for the bug to pick up.

“Get to it, then.” Bond picked at his shirt sleeve, making the motion of fabric moving. Thankfully Tom picked it up and reached for a few of his folded clothes, rustling them about, while carefully staying out of visual range of the camera, which was trained onto the bed.

“That’s better,” Bond said after a moment, before letting annoyance creep back into his voice. “You could do with a shower.”

“Of course, Sir.” Tom took off his shirt and then made sure he passed the bug on the way to the bathroom, where he noisily turned the taps on, then the shower.

Bond followed once the water was running to mask any sounds, and closed the bathroom door behind them both.

“Time to wake up, Q.”

There was a groan and a rustle of sheets on the other end of the line. “What have you found, Bond?” Q’s sleepy voice came through on both their lines, together with a yowl from an annoyed feline.

“Don’t tell me that bloody cat is sleeping in our bed.”

Tom desperately tried not to show a reaction to the realisation that MI6’s _Quartermaster_ and the legendary _Commander Bond_ had a _bed_ together, which not only confirmed the rumours, but was also a concept so ordinary and mundane, it couldn’t be possible for such men as Q and ex-007.

Q didn’t answer the question about the cat. “There had better be a good reason you woke me up,” he grumbled. “What is it? Nuclear warhead?”

“No, bug in the hotel suite. What’s the intel on the owner?”

A creative curse came through the feed, followed by the sound of fingers flying on keys, indicating that Q slept with computers as well as cats, at least when Bond wasn’t around.

“No suspicious flags. Swiss national, in relationship with a Thai. Owned and run resorts in Thailand for the last fifteen years, this is their latest and newest. All gay-friendly, but this is the first specifically targeting the gay luxury market. No flags for active involvement in underage prostitution, drugs, arms or similar, but known to turn a blind eye to what his guests do. To a lot of things, actually, so long as they don’t bring the attention of the police.”

“Could be a side-business of extracting blackmail money from wealthy patrons,” Bond mused, “if they deem it lucrative enough to lose a customer. That would be one way to gain the capital required for investments.”

Q hummed in agreement. “Resort has a private jetty – you might want to check that out. Did you get a look at the bug?”

“No, not yet.” Bond glanced at Tom. “We’ll have a look at the bug and send the specs to Q branch. Prepare yourself for some heavy breathing and flesh slapping.”

Tom winced, but turned off the water and stepped out of the bathroom, making sure to walk noisily past the bug.

Bond stayed in the bathroom for a moment longer, chuckling quietly. “Don’t tell anyone, because it would destroy my fearsome reputation, but I feel sorry for the guy.”

“He’s out of the Irish Guards, isn’t he?” Q asked, “big burly chap with the imagination of a toadstool who’d much rather be chasing drug lords in piranha infested mud to lazing around a luxury resort? I can see why he’d be floundering. How’s he doing?”

“Not bad, but completely out of his depth. He’s doing his best and he’s learning fast. Whose evil idea was it to send him on a first evaluation mission that is utterly out of his comfort zone?”

“M, who else?” Q snorted. “Kid came highly recommended from one of his old buddies in the SAS.”

“The poor bastard. M’s playing the lest-anyone-think-I-favour-him card. I might cut him some slack in the role-playing.” Bond added, “I must be getting soft in my old age.”

Q’s only reply was a splutter and a chuckle as Bond exited the bathroom.

Tom lay on the bed, a towel wrapped around his hips, and he’d even remembered to wet his hair. He appeared to be taking photos of himself, while honing in on the bug with his smartphone, which had been enhanced with a few modifications, such as a powerful lens. Bond nodded when he saw him do the work, satisfied with the way the junior agent had taken the initiative.

He walked across the bed and sat down, ready to slip into his role. “I wish you stopped pretending you had some modesty, insisting on that towel all the time. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen many times.”

He leaned across and close to Tom’s face, as if he was kissing him, their faces shielded from view by the back of his head as he whispered, “We’ll take out the bug ‘by accident’. Prepare for some ‘rough sex’.”

“I’m up for it if you are,” Tom seemed to be putting on courage as he pushed up against Bond, hand against his good shoulder, as though starting to take Bond’s shirt off.

“No,” Bond murmured, “I have a better idea.” Louder he said, while sitting up, ”take that damned towel off, and forget about your modesty. I _bought_ your modesty, along with everything else. Don’t forget that I own you, and pay handsomely for that dubious privilege.” His facial expression seemed cold and arrogant, with equal measures lustful. “I want to see you standing, legs braced, facing the wall, and then I’m going to fuck you with my favourite dildo until you cream that godawful painting, while you’re not moving an inch. And when you’re wide and lose, I’m going to double you over and ram my fist up your arse. What do you have to say to that?”

In his ear, Q made a quietly strangled sound.

Tom swallowed and tilted his chin up, the very image of the bought, trapped slave. “I say thank you, Sir.”

Bond nodded, and Tom slid off the bed to walk across the room with the tread of the condemned, shedding the towel on the way. He faced the wall and positioned himself with spread legs, right underneath the bug. But instead of spreading out his arms, he raised them above his head, palm ‘accidentally’ covering up the camera.

Bond followed Tom, giving his shoulder a pat to indicate he should start with the heavy breathing.

“You’re still so goddamned tight, but not much longer,” he made up the commentary while doing absolutely nothing except for infusing his voice with harsher breathing. “Come on, take it, don’t be such a little sissy.”

Q made a strangled sound in both their ears as Tom started to mix up his heavy breathing with over-dramatic grunts of discomfort and pain, while Bond kept uttering a string of filthy insults. Tom eventually acted out a ludicrously fake orgasm, ripping the bug off the picture frame and crushing the delicate electronics in his large hand.

That moment Bond stepped back and started to laugh.

“Oops,” Tom dropped the mangled mess onto the carpet and slid down to the floor. “Did we need the bug to trace where they got it from? I hadn’t thought they were so flimsy.” Remembering that he was nude, he scrambled for his clothes nearby.

“Send the photos that you took to Q branch. I’m going for a shower, after this performance we won’t be expected downstairs for a while.”

“Yes, Sir.” Tom picked up the crushed electronics, and wrapped them in a tissue as though he still hadn’t decided whether to throw them in a bin or take them home. Pulling on a pair of shorts, he padded back to the bedside table and his phone, in order to send the photos to Q-branch.

“How was that?” Bond asked Q, as he turned on the taps in the bathroom.

“Different,” Q commented, but no matter how much he tried to sound dry and unaffected, Bond knew better.

“I wasn’t quite sure from your reaction, did you like it or not? Any potential?” Bond didn’t hide is chuckle.

“Not quite in those terms,” Q replied, as though regaining his composure. “Being fucked with a dildo against a wall or a hand up my arse isn’t my idea of a good time.”

Bond replied with a soft laugh. “No worries there, I had to play so many roles as 007, I’m pretty much vanilla when it really counts. But if you ever wanted to experiment…” he let the sentence stand between them.

Q huffed, his usual self again, adamant to return to the task at hand. “I was getting an interesting read on the camera, before young Tom broke it. Unusual for this sort of thing, it’s a pricey piece, not an off-the-shelf one used by one’s common variety voyeur.”

Bond was struggling a little with the shirt on his own. “You think the owner is affiliated with a larger organisation?”

Q made an affirmative noise. “Either that or he’s overinvesting in his fixtures, but given the finances on the resort, I don’t think it’s that. He got those jars in the bathroom that have the cotton balls in them from IKEA, and I haven’t heard of any change of plan in the exchange of the Burmese intel Tom is meant to be intercepting.”

“Looks to me like we’ve stumbled onto a sideline here, which my gut feeling tells me is worth investigating.” Bond was out of his shirt now, only trousers and underpants to go. “Can you dig out anything you can find on the partners? There’s a snag somewhere.”

“Agreed.” More typing. “Why is it that all your interesting kids are the ones that stumble onto interesting detours?” Q complained, “this doesn’t happen with the idiots.”

“That’s because the interesting ones find the interesting bits.” Bond stepped out of the last of his clothes. “Or maybe because M already has a damn fine idea of who is going to make the cut and who isn’t, before he sends them to me to be evaluated.”

Q made a noise of agreement. “He gives the interesting missions to the ones who are going to make it. Sneaky bastard.” There was the sound of clicking. “Haven’t seen one of these for a while,” he mused, and Bond guessed that Tom’s photos must have made it through. “German-made. Some of the drug and organised crime squads used to use these. Really nice bits of equipment. Stopped because they were so small they could be trod underfoot if someone hadn’t installed them properly, and spare parts and repairs cost a fortune.”

“Lucky for Tom, or they would have got another eyeful.” Bond was reluctant to break the line to go under the spray. “Incidentally, are you still in your pyjamas?”

“It does happen to be 5am.”

“Are you up for some phone sex?”

“Not on this line, I’m not. You do know they’re all recorded, and wiping data would set a bad precedent.”

“Damn,” Bond sighed exaggeratedly.

Q didn’t respond to that, hitting keys instead. “Interesting, I’m just logging into the CCTV cameras and our owner’s come out of a room that’s marked as the private steam room on the maps, fully dressed and with dry hair.”

Bond heaved another deep sigh. “Is that my cue to have a quick shower and get back to business?”

“Considering that he has taken a seat at the bar where he can see anyone coming down the stairs from your suite, yes. Could be interesting.”

“Very well then. Business before pleasure. Keep me updated, but tell Tom to go to the bar straight away. I’ll join him there.”

“What am I now, your messenger-boy?” Q grizzled.

“Perhaps, or perhaps you’re a kind-hearted soul who wants to save a junior agent the horror of having to face his stark naked evaluator after he’d had to do the same thing himself.”

Q merely huffed in reply, and Bond heard the click as both lines were opened to allow Q to relay the message to Tom.

“Yes, Sir.” Tom’s answer was swift, followed by rummaging for clothes. “I’ll make sure I’m walking funny too.”

“Excellent thinking. I’m offline for a short while,” Bond took out the miniature earpiece and stepped into the walk-in shower.

* * * * *

Because of the relatively early hour - just before lunch - there weren’t a lot of guests about. Tom supposed most of them had headed out to town, or to the beach. The only other person, who wasn’t obviously staff, was a grey-haired, solid man in his fifties, sitting at the poolside bar.

Tom tried to play the part of a used toy boy who’d just gone through a rough bout of sex. He gingerly made his way through the bar, seeking out and carefully sitting down on an upholstered bench. Ordering a local beer from the bartender, he waited under the steady eye of the other man, who seemed to decide something before asking: “how are you finding your stay?”

“As expected.” Tom chose the most diplomatic answer. “It is a beautiful resort I believe.” Careful not to give anything away, and neither to discourage the man, who gave him a searching look.

“Always good to hear. I’m Alistair Rutter, and my partner and I have the privilege of owning this.” He waved his hand around. “Been a big dream of both of us for a while.”

“That’s nice.” Tom tried to project a somewhat pained smile, remembering to shift in his seat.

“Tom Waterhouse, isn’t it? You arrived this morning with Robert Sterling?”

“Yes, I’m Mr Sterling’s,” Tom managed a slight hitch, “personal trainer.”

Another look. “I see. You’ve done a good job then, if I can say so. He’s in very good shape for his age.”

“Mr Sterling doesn’t require much incentive, he has great personal motivation.”

* * * * *

Up in the room, Bond had finished his shower, drying his back one-handed by hooking the bath sheet to the door handle. When he put the ear piece back in, he was confronted with Q’s laughter, which sounded more like an evil cackle. Q informed him with glee that he’d just been politely called ‘old’.

Bond swore to take the owner down for that.

* * * * *

“Have you been Mr Sterling’s...personal trainer for very long?”

Tom had to think on his feet. With all the prep work he’d done, he hadn’t quite remembered to figure that one out. “About a year. I met Mr Sterling at a…crucial time.”

“His injury?” Rutter asked, and nodded as the bartender refilled his glass. “You might want to consider booking him in the spa. We have several excellent masseurs.”

“I will remember to suggest this to Mr Sterling. I am very thankful to him, he has remunerated me well for my help with his physical therapy.”

“I’m sure.” Rutter toyed with his glass, but his gaze was steady. “Do you enjoy your work?”       

“It...pays well.” Tom was floundering inside, but he used his insecurity for the role he was playing.

“Oh?” Rutter raised an eyebrow. “I congratulate you, not many young…personal trainers…can have such generous clients.”

“I make sure that I meet all of Mr Sterling’s needs. _All_ of them.” Tom remembered to fidget, as if he were in discomfort sitting down.

* * * * *

“I’m starting to wonder if Mr Rutter is working the business from the other end,” Bond mused for Q’s benefit.

“Shush, this is getting interesting,” was Q’s only reply in between the sound of fingers flying on keys.

* * * * *

“Ah, you must be very close then, to him.” Rutter kept his eyes on Tom.

“What do you mean?” Tom didn’t fake his ignorance, he really didn’t know where this was going.

A slightly avuncular look. “I mean, as his…personal trainer…to a man who obviously cares a great deal about his physical ability and appearance.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Tom’s confusion bled into his expression.

“He’s trying to see if you would take money to spy on Bond,” Q explained to Tom through the feed, completely ruining Bond’s fun in waiting to see how long it would take the junior agent to catch up.

“I’m the evaluator here, Q, and I’m sure Agent Jacobs would have figured it out eventually.” Bond’s smirk could be heard through the line.

 “Oh...” Tom exhaled, as much in response to the voices in his ear, as to Mr Rutter’s conspiratorial look. “I accompany him on all his trips, if that’s what you mean, and I have quarters at all his houses.” The sound of quick typing in his ear indicated that Q had magically given Mr Sterling more residences in his name. “Mr Sterling likes to have stress relief at hand at all times, which is why I always accompany him at his business ventures.”

Bond made an appreciative noise, impressed by the quick thinking.

“I’m sure he is thankful,” Rutter nodded. “Terribly stressful, the modern lifestyle, especially for, well, _us_ , and that’s why Kiet and I decided to open this resort. I suppose with the recent goings-on, the oil industry must be a particularly hectic one.”

Tom hesitated, while Q filled him in: “No, it wouldn’t have been obvious on the check-in details that Mr Sterling is in oil. He’s been doing a spot of Google.”

“Oh,” Tom exhaled once more, “I supposed you make sure to find out the background of all of your guests to ensure they’ll be as comfortable as possible?”

“Of course,” Rutter seemed unruffled at being caught up, “it sets our little hotel apart from all the big resorts – we like to personalise the experience for our guests.” He lifted the glass to his lips. “Have you thought about what you might want to do after you finish your current role with Mr Sterling?”

“Finish?” Tom managed to look taken aback, then crestfallen. He wasn’t the best of actors, had never claimed to be, but he found himself wanting desperately to impress Commander Bond. “Do you mean when I’m too old?”

“Well, all such things have an end,” Rutter shrugged. “I’m sure you’re an excellent trainer, but it's a young man’s game and all. I was just asking if you had any plans to use what you’re learning from him. I’m sure Mr Sterling has a wealth of experience and knowledge.”

“I’m not as clever as Mr Sterling is,” Tom sighed, reeling the other one in, now that he understood the game. “He’s told me so many times.”

Rutter made a disapproving face. “Just experience, I’m sure, though I’m in no doubt he’s a very clever man – as are you.”

“Me? You really think so?” Tom smiled a little. Giving a bit, showing trust, showing hope. “Mr Sterling thinks I’m only good for one thing.”

“I’m sure you’re good at lots of things, not just…personal training.” Rutter said heartily. “But …” he trailed off.

“But?” Tom put on his most hopeful face. “Please tell me.”

“Don’t lay it on too thickly,” Bond murmured in Tom’s ear.

“Well, this isn’t a decision to be taken lightly, I know,” Rutter nodded. “Goodness knows, you must be travelling to a good many more interesting places than most personal trainers get to do with their clients, and good trainers are in demand everywhere. I get lots of enquiries from the resorts around here, so we can keep in touch if you like. I like to keep in touch with guests anyway, of course, but if you ever want an opportunity…”

“Are you offering me a job?” Tom asked.

“That’s not going the way I thought it would,” Bond commented to Q.

“I haven’t got anything at the moment.” Rutter sounded surprised and almost regretful, “but as I said, I get lots of enquiries here and there and I can pass them on to you. I’d always be interested to hear how you are doing, of course, and how Mr Sterling is doing.”

Back on track, Tom thought. “I’d be happy to tell you how Mr Sterling is doing, if you’re really that interested. I do have to take some enforced time off occasionally.”

“You’re learning fast,” Bond commented drily.

Rutter smiled. “Excellent, I am very interested in how my guests are doing. The only way we can roll with the big resorts, really.” He smiled, and almost visibly changed the subject, now that he had what he wanted from Tom. “What have you and Mr Sterling planned? If you are interested, we do have a complimentary minibus that goes to the town centre and does a circuit of the beaches, and we can always arrange a private car.”

“He seems quite keen for the two of you to not be at the resort,” Q commented on the feed, “and when you extract yourself, I have some interesting information on Mr Rutter.”

Tom nodded. “I am not privy to Mr Sterling’s plans unless he wants me to prepare for something special, but I will try to suggest your idea.”

Bond, meanwhile, had finished dressing. “I’ll be down in a couple of minutes to extract you,” he told Tom.

“There’s a lot to see in Phuket, not just bars and beach, and Kiet or I would be glad to put together a tour for you.”

“Thank you, Mr Sterling might like this, I will...” Tom didn’t finish his sentence and flinched instead, when Bond’s sharp voice cut through the empty bar.

“Tom,” Bond wasn’t wearing the sling, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side. “I need you in the room. _Now_.”

“Of course, Sir.” Tom jumped up from his seat, then quickly remembered to put on a show of being in pain. “Right away, Sir.” He made sure he winced. “Nice to meet you, Mr Rutter.” Tom scrambled to obey and scurried-limped past Bond and up to the room.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well done,” Bond gave Tom’s shoulder a left-handed pat once they’d closed the door to their suite behind them. “What do you think about Mr Rutter?”

“Funny way of making sure he knows about his guests, first bugs and then getting info off the weaker partner.” Tom sat down heavily. “How much extra tempting stuff did you put on Mr Sterling while we were on our way here, Quartermaster?” He asked Q while Bond slipped his arm into the sling.

“Several properties and a not-quite savoury business venture in Siberia.”

“Siberia?” Bond frowned, but didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to, because the hitch in Q’s breathing told him everything. That, and the clicking of keys.

“I’ve just changed it to Uzbekistan.”

Tom looked at Bond quizzically, but didn’t ask about Siberia. “What sort of business in Uzbekistan?” he asked instead.

“Corruption and bribery?” Bond hazarded a guess.

“A given,” Q replied. “Oil and gas via some interesting government contacts,” there was more typing. “Found it, Mr Rutter’s got quite an esteemed guest list, it seems, and an unfortunate rate of them going bankrupt.”

“While Mr Rutter keeps adding to his empire, am I right?” Tom commented quickly.

“Yes, all sorts of interesting bank accounts in all sorts of currencies. And the guests that go bankrupt? Older men who have been at the resort with their much younger boyfriends. Younger boyfriends who dump them as soon as the money goes and set themselves up nicely.”

Bond nodded. “I’m sure Tom’s little display of the abused toy boy has Rutter hooked.”

Tom visibly basked in the praise. “Any connection to the Burmese intel that’s being dropped off? Or is that just part of the services he offers?”

“I think you’ve got it spot on with the latter,” Bond concurred. “Q, what is your informed opinion?”

Q made a noise of agreement. “No indications he or the partner have any sympathies to any particular cause, but cross-referencing the guest list is quite interesting – I’d say either he’s myopic, or one of his ‘competitive advantages’ over the big resorts is that he facilitates meetings.”

“Any more information on how the ladyboy troupe fits into all this?” Tom asked.

“I reckon they are the couriers,” Bond mused.

“Clever,” Tom rummaged for his own tablet, “they’re so far from discreet that nobody would ever think of them being couriers.”

“The kid is good,” Bond commented to Q, in full audible range of Tom.

“Really, James?” Q admonished him straight away. “That’s Junior Agent Jacobs.”

Tom had a hard time not to punch the air.

“Very well,” Bond smirked, “Junior Agent Tom Jacobs has a lot of potential.”

“Don’t forget that the reason you’re both here is to intercept the intel from Burma. There’s a kerfuffle at the entrance – looks like the troupe is arriving.”

“Time for Junior Agent Jacobs to saunter casually to reception, isn’t it?” Bond sat back. “I am sure he will come up with a suitable reason.”

“Enquiring about day tours for you,” Tom answered quickly. “I’ll bring all the brochures back to our rooms and you’ll not be happy with any of them – but I’ll have spent ages at the tour desk annoying the crap out of the concierge.”

“Excellent. Have a martini sent up to the room in the meantime.”

“Of course, Sir.” Tom nodded, and headed out. “Shaken, not stirred?”

“Obviously.” Bond kicked back further and put his feet up, ankles crossed. He waited until Tom had left the room before addressing Q. “So, still in your pyjamas?”

“Nope, dressed now,” Q said heartlessly. “Just getting my breakfast. You?”

“Shame,” Bond sighed. “As for me, I’m dressed, of course. I had to extract Agent Jacobs from the clutches of the proprietor.” He sighed again, “I’m bored. Haven’t you got anything for me to blow up?”

“Can’t you pre-score him and then change it later if he’s going to take after you? There are no explosives here – just sun, sea, ladyboys and a really embarrassed baby agent.”

“Are you telling me I should deduct scores if he’ll become like me or that I should add some?” The smirk in Bond’s voice was audible, even through the line.

“If he’s anything like you, he’s going to blow the place up, then reveal your covers, kill several random henchmen, and cause another _incident_. So, deduct points. But he’ll invariably get the data he came for.”

“You make it sound as if I’d been a nuisance,” Bond chuckled.

“And that is news to you exactly how?”

“I would have thought that at least you, of all people, might have been a little fond of my methods.”

“Fond? Are you serious? You destroyed more gadgets and cost my department more than any other agent.”

“Admit it, you enjoyed it.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No!”

Bond just laughed.

* * * * *

Tom returned about half an hour later. “The intel that I’ve gathered at reception suggests the handover will take place tonight, during the seafood dinner with ladyboy cabaret entertainment in the waterfront restaurant.”

Bond noted that Tom sounded confident, not in the least bit timid or unsure. “We will take a table in that case.”

Bond heard Tom walking back to the reception desk to make the booking, together with much detailed instructions that Mr Sterling had to have a good view of the show, every bit sounding like the devoted lackey.

“I hope you like lobster,” Tom commented, as he made his way out of the lobby and back to their suite.

“If it’s prepared well, I certainly do.” Bond had his back to the young agent, standing shirtless in front of the large wardrobe. It was the first time that the full extent of his scars was on display.

There was a sharp intake of breath, before Tom quickly closed the door.

Bond craned his head back, an eyebrow arched high. “Not every double-O agent ends up looking like that. Most end up dead instead.”

“Did you get all those at the same time?” Tom swallowed audibly.

“No, not all, but pretty much all of the ones in the shoulders and arms.” He turned round, allowing Tom to inspect the destruction the torture had caused. “I want you to realise that there are many risks to becoming a double-O agent. It’s one thing to know, and another to _understand_ and see for yourself.”

“Yes, Sir.” Tom’s voice had gone quiet. “The last mission, Sir?”

“The last mission.” Bond nodded, and that was that. The subject was closed, and he turned back to the wardrobe to take out an exquisite dress shirt. “I can dress myself, but frankly, it’s less hassle if you help me with the buttons.”

If Q had been in his ear at that moment, he would have smiled. Bond wasn’t known for accepting help.

Tom scrambled over. “Anything you think I should wear tonight to complement?” Grateful the subject had been changed.

“What is the best dinner suit you have brought with you?” Bond manoeuvred his right arm into the sleeve with the aid of his good one, then followed with the left.

Tom started on the buttons, after momentarily fumbling before he remembered they were mirrored, since he was facing Bond. “Lucy made me buy a flashy new one.” His tone indicated mild disgust.

“I’m glad she did, because one of our best weapons are our looks, and if necessary, we will use them in any way, shape or form. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Tom nodded. “Yes, Sir. Clearly.”

“But would you be able to perform – no matter what is asked of you?”

Tom hesitated on the second to last button. “What we did earlier, Sir...my first time. I don’t know, I’d try but I don’t know.” He looked down.

“That’s the best answer you could have given.” Bond offered an encouraging nod. “Had you told me that you knew you’d be just fine I wouldn’t have believed you. Anyway, only a psychopath would have no qualms about anything, and we don’t want psychopaths as agents. Three-quarters, yes, all of us end up like that, but one hundred per cent? Useless.”

“Sir?” Tom sounded confused, as he finished with the buttons and stepped back.

Bond smoothed the shirt down before tucking it one-handed into the waistband of his black tailored trousers. “Psychopaths don’t have the ability to make gut instinct decisions. Besides, while collateral damage is unavoidable, a complete disregard for human life turns an agent into a liability.”

Tom looked thoughtful. “Is that one of the reasons they still use agents?”

“Robots can’t make the _right_ decisions, they can only make correct ones.” Bond pulled a black bow tie from the wardrobe, and held it out with a challenging look. It was, of course, one that had to be tied.

After fumbling at attempting to tie the bow in effect backwards, Tom gave up and used his extra inch of height to advantage, standing behind Bond to get the desired rakish effect.

Bond didn’t hide his amusement, but reminded silent until Tom was done and he could strap on the sling for his arm. “You better get ready, we should appear downstairs together.”

“Yes, Sir,” Tom grabbed the garment bag and disappeared into the bathroom, as Bond smirked at the younger man’s modesty even after the earlier events. He finished dressing and by the time he stood in all his polished splendour, Tom re-entered the room.

“Not bad,” Bond commented after a once-over. The young man looked positively dapper in his elegantly cut dark suit. Hardly a trace of the ‘personal trainer’ left.

“You think?” Tom’s voice betrayed his insecurity. “You don’t think it’s a bit...much?” His tone that of a man accustomed to uniform, or its civilian equivalent - the High Street suit.

“No, I think it is spot-on. Bearing in mind the roles we are playing, it would not be feasible that someone like Robert Sterling would not deck out his boytoy trophy in a tailored suit. He would want to show him off.”

“I’ll tell Lucy you approve, she picked the suit.” Tom nodded. “Ready to head off for lobster and badly lip-synced Spice Girls?”

“What are Spice Girls?” Bond felt for the invisible ear piece, “let me check the line to HQ, and you should do the same. Q?”

“Girl band from the 90s, Bond, you were too busy gallivanting around after missing Soviet weaponry for most of the decade.” Q’s acerbic voice came over both their feeds.

“Really, Q?” Bond commented just as sarcastically, “you were allowed to watch television as a toddler?”

“I did,” Q said with a mock-wounded tone, “occasionally go out to retro night at the clubs when I was at University.”

Tom barely bit back a chuckle.

“Well, my dear Quartermaster,” Bond let his amusement bleed through the feed, “I think we have established that the link is working.”

“Get down there, then,” Q replied, “and stay away from the oysters - they’ve been sitting in melting ice in the kitchen since they were delivered mid-afternoon.”

“The warning is appreciated.” Bond headed towards the door, expecting Tom to follow. He immediately slipped into the persona of a rather unlikable and very arrogant businessman.

Tom trotted three steps behind him, as though scrambling to catch up, as they headed down the stairs. They walked along the wide stone paths to the main restaurant, a pavilion set in the middle of an artificial lake. It was already filling with guests, and swarming with staff, both local Thai and _farang_. Tom spotted the Chief Events Manager, a Serbian woman, approaching them from the side.

“I’m so glad you could make it.”

Bond jerked back as if hit. A flood of fear paralysed him, making it impossible to breathe, while his heart raced, from normal to distress in less than a second.

Panic.

Water.

_Pain_.

Everything black, then bright. Too bright too blind too painful.

He doubled over, gasping for air that wouldn’t fill his lungs.

“Mr Sterling! Mr Sterling!”

Bond vaguely heard a panicked Tom above him, and dimly realised he had fallen to his knees on the stone path.

“Wait, give him air,” the voice again, female, Serbian, same register.

“No,” Bond tried to shout, “no!” but only a desperate groan came out.

He didn’t notice the voice in his ear, until it yelled: “James!”

“Just lie him down, does he have any heart trouble?” the voice of the owner.

“No, first time.” Tom was calmer.

“James!” repeated the voice in his ear, but Bond wasn’t able to reply. He was _there_ , back amidst the never ending pain and drowning, and the utter hopelessness with only one way out.

“Jacobs,” Q switched to Tom’s feed, “get him the hell out of there. Get him to the suite. Tell them…” a mere heartbeat’s hesitation, “tell them it’s the gall bladder and he just needs rest.”

“Mr Sterling has problems with his gall bladder. Might be the in-flight meal,” Tom told the hotel staff. “I’ll get him back to his room and call his doctor. He usually just needs some peace and quiet.” He bent down and betrayed how strong he really was, throwing Bond’s good arm across his shoulders, pulling him up as though he barely weighed anything, despite Bond’s abortive struggle. “You have a wheelchair or something to get him to the lift?” Tom asked the staff.

“James,” Q kept urging through the combined feed, “listen to me, James. Your vitals are all over the place, you need to calm down. You’re in Thailand, do you understand? You’re okay.”

He didn’t get a response, but Q could see through the security camera feed that Bond’s struggle was lessening.

“Jacobs,” Q addressed Tom, “I’ve isolated this feed between us. You need to know that Bond’s torturer was female and Serbian, and I reckon from the accent so is the Events Manager. I am sure he is having a flashback and  I’m certain he suffers from PTSD, which he has admirably under control. I need you to understand that you have to get him to the room, set up a webcam feed with me, and then finish the mission. I will hand you over to R. Do you understand?”

‘‘Thanks,” Tom nodded to the two staff who brought the wheelchair, the gesture equally applicable to Q. “I can take it from here, I’ll call if we need anything.”

With that he wheeled Bond towards the lift.

Bond was starting to shake violently once they doors of the lift had closed behind them. Still silent, still paralysed with an all-encompassing fear and a memory so real, he couldn’t get out of it.

“Jacobs, help Bond on the bed, get some water, and prop up the tablet. I’ll take over from there.”

“Copy.” Tom quickly wheeled Bond back to the suite and followed Q’s instructions, helping a by now unresisting Bond onto the bed after loosening his jacket, bow tie and collar button. “Will he be alright?” Tom asked, setting up the tablet on the bedside table.

“Yes. Bond will always be alright.”

If the Quartermaster’s reply sounded cryptic to Tom, he didn’t let on.

“I am handing you over to R now, and am switching this line to an isolated one. Get yourself back down into the dining room and complete the mission, Jacobs. MI6 is relying on you.”

“Yes, Sir.” With a last look at Bond Tom stepped away, reluctant but following Q’s orders. The next moment he had a different voice in his ear, which took over the duties of handling this mission. Evaluation or not, the information had to be retrieved.


	4. Chapter 4

Q was making quick work of hacking into Bond’s modified tablet to take over controls. All the time talking to the catatonic man on the bed.

“James, listen to me, I’m all yours. It’s only us on this feed.”

His face appeared on the screen, frowning at the glimpse he got of the pale-faced, sweaty Bond, who was staring vacantly at the ceiling. “James? Come on, look at me,” Q cajoled.

“It was...” Bond forced out at last. “I was drowning. I was back there. All that pain.” He didn’t look at Q, shame replacing the fear.

“It was a flashback, James. It’s a symptom of PTSD. It’s a miracle nothing like that has happened before.”

“Is this going to happen every time I run into a Serbian woman?”

“Perhaps,” Q wasn’t going to lie, “but there are ways to deal with it.”

Bond didn’t say anything for a long while, long enough for Q to start worrying he might have lost him to his thoughts.

“I’ve become a liability,” Bond finally stated.

Whatever Q had expected, it wasn’t that “What?” he said in shock. “James, it would have been a miracle if you’d come through without having something like this.”

Bond lifted his head to glare at the screen. “Nothing like this has ever happened before. M gave me the opportunity to become an evaluator, instead of forcing me onto the scrap heap. An evaluator who loses it whenever he hears a Serbian woman speak? Maybe next time it happens when I’m in the water: under the shower, or in a spa?”

“Which hasn’t happened yet, and you have two showers a day. James, one of the things about PTSD is that it usually diminishes over time. It’s no different than a soldier who cringes at loud noises when he’s back from a war zone.”

“I didn’t just cringe, I completely lost control. I was back _there_! What if I had started to shout? How would that have been explained?” Bond let his head drop back, but kept looking at Q on the screen. “I am supposed to be invincible.”

“James,” Q said softly, “no-one is invincible, and you’re far stronger than anyone has any right to expect. And as for explanations, Tom handled it pretty well, as I’d imagine all the others would, who get as far as having you as their evaluator.”

“Bullshit, I should not be weak, but the threat of having a flashback, over which I have no control, makes me weak.”

“James, it’s been more than a year,” Q reminded him, “and this is the only thing that’s happened.”

“That’s not true,” Bond replied quietly, “it’s not the only thing.”

“What, then?”

“You know I have nightmares, no point lying about them, but I’ve never told you about the headaches and chest pains.” He let out a humourless huff. “I even went to medical with it, and apparently it’s all in my mind.”

“Which is part of PTSD,” Q said firmly. “Which is a perfectly natural response to what you’ve been doing for twenty-odd years.”

“Why is it that I’ve only been suffering from PTSD since that bitch?”

“You’re also not drinking and fucking yourself stupid after a mission, either,” Q reminded him. “It wouldn’t surprise me if that used to be your outlet.”

“Should I be starting that again?” Another huff and the accompanying facial expression told Q that Bond wasn’t serious, after all. “One of the idiots in medical advised me I should meditate. When hell freezes over, I told them.”

The idea of Bond meditating was too hilarious for Q to do anything but snort with laughter. “No, but there are various ways of coping. There are exercises you can do.”

“What do you mean, ballet? I would look lovely in a tutu.”

The tentative move back into humour was a good sign, Q decided, and he smiled. “I was thinking more along the lines of those Pilates exercises that the new Head Physiotherapist is so keen on, with the resistance machines.”

“How exactly is that going to deal with my treacherous mind? It’s just another form of exercise, and I already do plenty. Can’t get flabby with you being younger.”

The return of the lecherous comments was encouraging. “It’s not as though I’d get you into yoga.” Q quipped, “and it’s different to the rest of the stuff you do. It’s all about placement. If nothing else, it’s a change.”

Bond sighed, more resigned than anything. “I’ll give it a try. If anything, to be able to tell you ‘I told you so’.” He offered a small smile and fell silent for a while. “It’s…” he started, but aborted.

Q came closer to the screen, “Hmmm?” he asked, encouragingly.

Bond blinked slowly, the battle with himself visible in his eyes. “It’s hard sometimes,” he finally allowed.

“But worth every second.” Q held up a fingertip to the screen.

“Occasionally it doesn’t feel like it.” Bond’s voice was very quiet. He briefly touched the screen himself, right where Q’s finger hovered, thousands of miles away. “Sometimes I want to let go but I can’t.”

“You won’t,” Q corrected. “I won’t let you.”

Bond smiled, one of those rare ones, reserved only for Q. Full of affection and warmth. “Don’t you dare die on me, Q.”

“I’ll do my best, Bond.”

“What happened to ‘James’?”

“Wasn’t the sentiment getting to you?”

“You know me too well.” Bond flashed a grin, which quickly turned into a yawn. “Can you check on Tom?”

Q looked away from the screen, fiddling with his earpiece. “Doing well, managed to get the USB while the dancers were mingling with the diners, and is downloading it now. Thank goodness they didn’t go for anything logoed on the USB, he’s put a blank one in as a decoy while he gets the intel.” Q paused. “The other patrons send you their regards, by the way.”

“So does the blackmailing proprietor, I bet. At least the ‘gall bladder’ gives us an excuse to leave tomorrow, can you have it booked for us?”

“Can do.” A flurry of typing just off-screen. “On the Swiss flight then, with the stopover in Zurich.”

“Thanks.” Bond struggled briefly to get out of his jacket. “Tom Jacobs is going to be a great asset to MI6, but I’m not sure he should join the double-O programme.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s not enough of a sociopath, and I wouldn’t exactly call that ‘wrong’.” Bond pulled a pillow close and shuffled it into position, lying on his side. He always preferred to lie on the right, to have use of the left. “His moral compass is excellent, which means it’s too rigid for the job of double-O.”

“Huh,” Q huffed, sounding surprised. “A real Officer and Gentleman type, is he?”

“Yes,” Bond gave a small smile, “too well-adjusted. He’ll be excellent as an agent, and I can see him rise up the ranks, but he should not be made to kill and destroy regardless of collateral. He’s very much unlike me, I’m afraid. Undamaged.”

Q nodded, and Bond could hear keys clicking again, as Q brought up Tom’s file “He’s seen action in Afghanistan and Iraq, and he’s killed. But I get your point, one of the types that should only do it in action or self-defence?”

“He needs a clear target and reason, as well as open consideration for collateral damage.”

Q paused. “Think he’ll be able to be in the double-O support teams?”

“He’d be excellent,” Bond agreed, stifling a yawn. “He could become one of the best.”

“I’ll pre-fill that in his report,” Q sounded amused, then paused. “You’re really enjoying this job, aren’t you? At least when you get good ones.”

“I never thought about it, but yes. I get to work with them before they have lost their humanity, and if I’m lucky, I might even save some of it.”

There was the sound of footsteps, and Bond tensed before he heard the agreed knock pattern on the door, and Tom came in with a tray of food.

“Got the intel, stayed for two more songs, and then told them I’d better come up to see you and bring you something for dinner. Sorry, no lobster, that would be suspicious for an invalid.”

“As long as it’s not porridge.” Bond looked up, but allowed himself to remain in his comfortable position on the bed.

Q, meanwhile, smirked on the screen. “Despite his Scottish roots,” he addressed Tom, “Commander Bond is more likely to fling porridge onto the walls than eat it.”

Tom smiled, visibly more relaxed that Bond did indeed seem to have returned to his normal self. “Chicken soup with noodles, some flatbread, and some cut crudités.” Tom put the tray down on the bed, within Bond’s reach. “Plus about five different types of tea.” He changed the subject. “Intel was image heavy, I’m guessing maps of the oil and gas reserves in Burma.”

“Has Q branch been able to take a look yet?” Bond addressed Q, while reaching for a piece of food that didn’t require sitting up. All he really wanted was sleep, but he’d already shown enough weakness for a lifetime.

“R is going through it now. Good work in replacing the USB key once you copied it, Tom.”

“Figured that if I was going to use that fancy-ass tablet I should do it properly.”

“Language, Junior Agent, language,” Bond commented mildly, while fighting to keep his eyes open, delicious food in front of him or not.

Tom only grinned instead of shrinking, which said volumes for his increased confidence. “Should I start packing? I was thinking to stay up tonight, just in case they find anything irregular with the intel and start sniffing around.”

“You do that. There has to be an advantage to working with children your age.” Bond had gained enough of his equilibrium back to flash a tired smirk. “You get to do the work, and I get to take a nap, like middle-aged men should do.”

“Okay,” Tom nodded. “Do you want me to pack for you? R said we’re on the first flight out via Zurich in the morning. Sensible not to have the stopover in Bangkok, just in case.”

“Yes, I know.” Bond waved him away. “Now do what needs to be done, and liaise with Q branch.” He turned his attention back to the screen. “Wake me up when it’s time to get undressed, Q.”

“You could just do it now and save the fuss,” Q said acerbically.

“I could,” Bond answered and closed his eyes, “or you could both bugger off now and leave me to my nap.”

Q opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, but then changed his mind, pausing and saying only: “I will.”

“Good, now shoo.” Bond didn’t address either directly, then rolled onto his back, to all intents going to sleep.

Tom came over and gently put the tablet on the bedside table. “I’ll take it from here,” he quietly said to Q.

“I’ll keep in touch,” Q replied before removing himself from the screen and the webcam feed. Bond wouldn’t have asked them to leave him alone without a very good reason, and Q was going to respect that.

Tom considered pulling the light cover over Bond, but decided against it - the room was warm, and the older man looked reasonably comfortable. After a moment’s consideration, though, he took off Bond’s shoes, and padded quietly to get their suitcases ready for departure the following morning.

He didn’t hear a sound from Bond, not even his breathing, and felt compelled to check the steady rise and fall of his chest before leaving the suite.


	5. Chapter 5

The following morning Bond appeared exactly as ever. Suave, mature and entirely unruffled. Nothing hinted at the incident from the previous day during their journey back to London, except that Bond was fairly quiet, which was not unusual. He busied himself with the tablet or listened to music, and generally appearing to be occupied with his thoughts.

Bond had asked Q to get Eve to arrange a debriefing with M at the earliest opportunity, and she’d made the impossible possible: he would be seeing Mallory right after lunch, with enough time to check in with Q beforehand.

That in mind, Bond headed into the bowels of the building. Minions scattered as he arrived, one of them alerting Q, who looked up from his work just as Bond sauntered up to his central workstation.

“How is my favourite boffin?”

“You better not have any others,” Q replied without heat. “What are you doing here? Jacobs returned all the gear - _intact_ \- fifteen minutes ago.

“I’m here to take you to lunch. You don’t look as if Ms Moneypenny had kept a close eye on your food intake.”

“I ate.” Q fiddled with his safety glasses, but took them off and got off his seat.

Bond raised his brows. “Probably less than your fat cat. Where is that disgusting animal anyway?”

“I thought Jacobs had done quite well,” Q reflected.

“Deliberate obfuscating is not going to work with me. Where’s the feline criminal?”

“Home. He didn’t want to come today, and before you ask, yes, I closed the door to your wardrobe.” Q started to make his way to the door.

“Did he tell you he didn’t feel like going into work?” Bond chuckled lightly as he followed Q, ignoring the less well disguised stares from some of the newer Q branch kids.

“Course he did,” Q said loftily. “If he remains on the bed when I get his travel case out, he wants to stay in. If he wants to come, he gets in the case. You know that.”

“I know it, and I ignore it.” Bond shook his head. “Honestly, I sometimes think that if you had to choose between me and the cat, the cat would win hands down.”

“Paws,” Q retorted, “but he can’t cook, so you win that one.”

They walked down the corridor to the lifts that would take them to the canteen. Bond waited until they’d entered the lift and the doors had closed, before he spoke again.

“And he can’t fuck you.” He stated with undisguised smugness.

Q replied with a filthy look as the lift moved. “Not everyone is sex-obsessed,” he said loftily, as they reached the canteen floor.

“No, but you are,” Bond leaned closer and whispered, “sometimes.”

Bond could feel the involuntary shiver that went down Q’s spine.

“Stop that!” Q hissed, as they entered the canteen.

“But you make it so irresistible,” Bond whined.

Q simply snorted as they made their way to the food, looking at the never-varying offerings. “They’ve changed the meat supplier,” Q informed Bond, “I’m going to have the shepherd’s pie.”

It didn’t look any different to how it had in the past, with greyish meat and lumpy potato covering, but Q had a sentimental fondness for the dish, remnant of school dining halls.

“I can see that it’s made from actual shepherd.” Bond made a face of distaste as he ordered vegetarian risotto, which almost looked appetising.

Q squirted quite a lot of tomato and chilli sauce on his meal, took a bottle of Coke from the fridge and waited for Bond before paying and taking their trays to the nearest table.

The occupants swiftly and quietly moved aside for them, an action Bond didn’t notice anymore, and Q was usually too preoccupied to note.

“I take it the data that Jacobs retrieved was up to your expectations?”

Q nodded. “More than. Mr Rutter’s got quite a sophisticated information exchange operation going on there. High level, too. Good thing Jacobs has got a continuing line to him now - should be interesting to see how far the web goes.”

“Tom won’t be too best pleased to be forced to continue the role of the poor abused plaything.”

Q barely stopped a chuckle. “Not what he expected for his first assignment.”

“But admirably executed.” Bond raised his glass of sparkly mineral water in a mock salute.

Q glugged down some of his Coke. “When are you seeing M?”

“Right after lunch.” Bond glanced at his Patek watch. “In exactly fifteen minutes, which means I might not have enough time to thoroughly enjoy this lovely risotto.” The sarcasm was dripping from his words.

Q ignored the culinary commentary. “So soon? You usually don’t have your reports finalised the day you get back.” He looked over his glasses at Bond, frowning with concern.

“I asked you to get Ms Moneypenny to organise a debriefing as soon as possible, and while I didn’t expect it to be quite so soon, it certainly shows how ruthlessly efficient she is.”

“Fair enough,” Q nodded. He opened his mouth, as though to ask further questions, but closed it and went back to his lunch. Whatever it was he had meant to ask, he didn’t want to say it in the crowded canteen.

Bond continued to eat in silence. Eventually he put the fork down, took a deep breath and leaned closer to Q. “I promise, if you have questions, I’ll be yours tonight.”

Q looked at him sombrely. “Thank you.” He gazed back at his plate, then up again. “I’ll make sure I’ll lock the cat in my office.”

“That’s effective bribery, if I’ve ever encountered any.” Bond smirked.

“Whatever works, James, whatever works.”

This startled a short laugh out of Bond, before he stood up. “I’ll see you later in branch. I plan to get you home at a reasonable time. No overnighters now that I’m back.”

“I’ll be in my lair,” Q confirmed. “Come get me when you’re done.”

“I will.” Bond brushed his hand over Q’s shoulder, a familiar and subtle touch, before leaving the canteen.

Bond arrived at M’s office exactly at the appointed time. Ms Moneypenny ushered him inside with a particularly bright smile, reserved for her two favourite men. M wasn’t one of them.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” Bond greeted as the double doors closed behind him.

“Bond,” M nodded towards one of his visitor chairs. “Any reason for requesting to see me so soon? Jacobs seems to have turned out well on this, even started getting his own network of informants, quite precociously.”

“Jacobs will be an excellent agent,” Bond sat down, “but not as a double-O.”

“Oh?” M seemed to echo the last syllable. “He came very highly recommended. Not good enough then?”

“On the contrary, too good.”

M looked momentarily confused. “Explain.”

“Tom Jacobs is a good man. He is not a sociopath, but being a double-O requires a level of sociopathy. Disregard for human life and collateral damage is often a requirement to make the right decisions - which don’t feel right.” Bond tilted his head slightly. “I remember the previous M ordering Ms Moneypenny to shoot. Making that decision, no matter the consequences, is something that Jacobs could force himself to do, but it would destroy him, and you’d end up with a useless shell. Do you want that?”

M thought for long minutes, steepling fingers under his chin. “No,” he said at last. “I take your point. Is your recommendation we put him in the Advanced Field Agent course?”

“My first recommendation is to put him into an acting course.” Bond’s lips quirked up, “my second one is to send him to any training course suitable to perfect someone who will become a _partner_ of double-Os. Jacobs would be excellent, he is level-headed, a good marksman, and remarkably unflappable for someone that young.”

M scribbled a few things on an old-fashioned paper notepad in front of him. “Noted.” He looked up. “But you didn’t ask for this meeting because of a competent young agent.”

“That is correct, Sir.” If Bond felt uncomfortable continuing, he didn’t show it. “I requested a meeting because I am worried I might have become a liability.”

M blinked, and his voice hardened. “How?” One word.

Bond didn’t move a muscle. “I experienced what psychologists apparently call a ‘flashback’, caused by what appears to be PTSD.”

M seemed to relax an infinitesimal amount. “Have you had time to seek a professional opinion?”

“No,” Bond swallowed the ‘of course not’. “I have just returned, but I was online with Q at the time, while Jacobs recovered the situation admirably. The trigger, it seems, was getting caught unawares by the voice of a female Serbian.”

M made a noncommittal sound. “Still, it’s not at all unusual in this line of work.” He paused and reached into his desk, fetching an even more old-fashioned index of business cards. He flicked through it, and removed a dog-eared card. “If you don’t want to go to Medical, this is the man who helped me after Ireland.” He handed over the card.

“Selly Oak?” The smallest of smiles ghosted across Bond’s face. “I appreciate it, Sir.” He stood up without being prompted to. “I believe you want me to report back.”

M nodded. “Keep me updated on progress. We’ll see how it goes on your next evaluation.”

Bond looked at him closely, understanding what hadn’t been said, and nodded briefly. “Good day, Sir.” With that he left.

 


	6. Chapter 6

A week later, Q returned to the flat to an unusual sight. Bond was sitting on the sofa, eyes unfocused, and even ignoring the cat, which was sitting on the other end.

When Q stepped curiously closer, he saw that Bond had placed a tumbler with whisky onto the arm rest, and his fist was closed, a clear liquid dripping from the clenched hand.

“James?”

Bond turned to face him “Hmmm?”

On the sofa Mr Turing yowled in indignation at being ignored.

“What are you doing?”

“Practising.” As if that explained anything.

“Practising what?” Q slid the bag off his shoulder and sat next to Bond, petting the cat to keep him quiet.

“Grounding techniques. I’m being taught how to cope with flashbacks.” Bond opened his hand, showing the melting ice cubes on his palm.

“Taught by whom?”

“My psychiatrist,” Bond said, as though it was obvious.

“You have a psychiatrist?” Q stopped petting Mr Turing, and was rewarded with a swipe of sharp claws across his still hand. Q didn’t even yelp, too surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you fret.” The teasing warmth of Bond’s smile took the sting out of his words.

“I do _not_ fret,” Q said mulishly. He held the cat closer, almost a cuddle. “Where did you find the psychiatrist?”

“M recommended him. He was Mallory’s psychiatrist after Northern Ireland. Dr Guthrie should have retired a while ago, but he has stayed part-time at Selly Oak.”

Q stayed silent a moment, trying to piece together the improbable: that M had admitted to having had help; that he had referred his own psychiatrist to Bond; and that Bond had actually gone.

Mr Turing wriggled, indicating he wanted to be released, and Q obeyed.

“How has it gone?” Q asked, moving closer.

Bond wiped his wet hand on Q’s shirt, chuckling at the protest. “It’s been useful. Dr Guthrie has a lot of experience and detests mumbo-jumbo.”

Q nodded. “Anything in particular? Anything I can do?”

“Yes, you could come up with an ingenious idea.” Bond took a sip from his whisky. “Something that I can have with me at all times, and which I can take hold of like I did with the ice cube.”

“To distract you?”

“To focus on the present, to avoid being pulled into the past by the flashback.”

Q looked thoughtful. “Metal,” he said at last. “Sharp edges, for preference. Maybe a set of dog tags?”

“Where would I carry those while in a suit?”

“Pocket,” Q shrugged, “don’t tell me David doesn’t put fifty of the things in the oddest places.”

“That’s a possibility. Or perhaps somewhere hidden in the sling? If I can’t use the right arm for anything, I can at least use it for ‘storage’.”

Bond mentioning his arm at all was rare enough that Q didn’t suggest another alternative. “Practical. I’ll see what I can knock up tomorrow in the workshop.”

“While you’re at it, can you design a gizmo that makes your cat vanish?”

The cat in question turned around and hissed, then pointedly lay down in Bond’s direct line of sight. “No,” Q said firmly, “and don’t joke about things like that.”

“What makes you think I am joking?”

“Cos if you weren’t, you’d have hurt him by now, and I’d not be here.”

The cat hissed again, and curled up in a ball.

“Rest assured, my dear Q, that I am not joking, but I have carefully weighed my options and decided that I pay almost any price to keep you here. Even that of living with an evil, arrogant, disagreeable, murderous feline.”

“He’s not murderous,” Q objected. “On that subject, you probably haven’t even fed him yet. Come on then, Mr Turing.” Q got up off the sofa and headed for the kitchen. “Tuna or chicken?” he asked the cat as he walked past.

The cat simply glared at Bond.

“He’s fat enough, he doesn’t need feeding, and he’s not going to bloody well answer you, is he?” Bond called after Q, who studiously ignored him.

The cat got up and padded to the kitchen. Sitting down next to the bowl, waiting as Q emptied the wet food into it.

“Tuna it is, then,” Q was saying, as he headed back and sat next to Bond. “What about you? What do you feel like for dinner?”

“That depends. Are you intending to open a tin for me? If yes, then not tuna. If no, then Turkish.”

Q just laughed and headed for the phone and their stack of takeaway menus.

“The day you actually cook, that day I will wear frilly pink underwear,” Bond commented, before he finished his whisky.

“Remind me never to learn, then.” Q gave a mock shudder.

“Your loss. I was told it suits me,” Bond replied without inflection.

“You know, I want to believe you are lying, but I’m not sure,” Q mused, while fishing out the menu for the small Turkish restaurant that also delivered takeaway. “Yet I really, really hope you are lying about the underwear.”

“I guess you’ll never know.”

“Thank goodness,” Q muttered and swiped to unlock the phone.


	7. Chapter 7

Unusually, Bond did not get the file of his evaluation mission in advance, nor the junior agent’s specs who he was meant to evaluate. Instead, M had requested Bond come to his office for the full briefing.

Bond entered the room and immediately recoiled. M was sitting at his round meeting table, reading from a file. His chair was pushed slightly out, to accommodate Mr Turing, who was lying curled on Mallory’s lap, purring, and to all appearances asleep.

“Sir?” It was rare that Bond was lost for words, but the sight was too much to comprehend. All he needed now was for the blasted cat to be white and wear a diamond studded collar.

“Ah, Bond,” M didn’t get up, to avoid disturbing the cat. “New evaluation mission, more straightforward this time, to see if a recent sighting is of a man we’ve been after for twenty years.” He pushed the file across the table.

Sending a glare at the snoozing cat, Bond took the file. “Any particular reason why I am not given the mission details electronically this time? Or shouldn’t I ask, Sir?”

“You’re free to ask,” M said silkily. “You’ll be heading to a town just outside Sabac, Western Serbia. There have been several sightings of Jozef Saulic, who is still on our wanted list.”

Before Bond could say anything in reply, there was a knock on the door and Moneypenny stuck her head around “Agent Tennyson is here, shall I send her in?”

“Yes,” M nodded.

“You’ll be evaluating Bianca Tennyson, Bond. She speaks fluent Serbo-Croat and Russian.”

Mallory had answered all the unspoken questions, and Bond had none left to ask. He merely nodded. “I understand, Sir.”

The rest of the briefing remained perfunctory. Tennyson was to determine whether the sightings were of the target, and report back. No attempts to extract or eliminate.

Straightforward.

So straightforward that Bond left Tennyson to fetch her things and asked her to join him in Q Branch, heading down there on his own first.

He walked into the wide open area and took a slow, deep breath, allowing it to gradually filter through his lungs and back out. Focusing on the sensation and nothing else, just as he had been taught.

“Q?” He called out as he spotted him at the centre console, “do you have a moment?”

Q took out some ear buds and stood up. “Coming,” he stepped off. “About to finish with your gear now,” he said as he approached Bond. “Have you seen Mr Turing?”

“Don’t mention the furry evil overlord. I almost lost my balance when I saw the blasted cat sleeping curled up on M’s lap.”

“Huh,” Q looked unperturbed, “that makes sense. Eve feeds him sashimi for lunch, so no wonder. What are you doing here without your latest victim anyway?”

“Interesting choice of word.” Bond waited for Q to step into his office first, before closing the door.

“How so?” Q asked, “drink?” heading over to the small coffee machine.

“Yes, thanks.” Bond sat down on the visitor chair, which was to all intents and purposes ‘Bond’s’ chair, since no one else ever dared to sit on it. “The mission takes place in Western Serbia, and the agent I am to evaluate is Bianca Tennyson.”

Q stopped in his tracks. “Going to Serbia, with the agent whose mother is a Croatian ex-gymnast, and one who is, frankly, not up to your usual standard?”

“Nor is the actual mission,” Bond shrugged, “but Tennyson speaks fluent Serbo-Croat.”

“He couldn’t have set a better test if he had tried to pull one out of thin air.” Q finished making the coffees and put one in front of Bond.

“Agreed.” Bond took the small cup, glancing lovingly at the excellent, steaming-hot brew. “I appreciate it.”

Q exhaled. “Anything special you think you’ll need? By the way, she’s only a better-than-average shot.”

“Looking at the mission particulars, she is very definitely not there because she is a potential double-O.” Bond took a careful sip of the hot, strong coffee. “I guess the only thing I’ll need is the bracelet you made.”

“I’ve made some adjustments to your sling so you can store it there. It also won’t set off the detectors at the airport.”

“Excellent.” Bond took another sip, then looked at Q. “I take it you will be monitoring?”

“Of course,” Q confirmed, then paused. “You _do_ know that the only direct flights to Belgrade these days are budget airlines, don’t you?”

“Excuse me?” Bond bristled, “budget airlines? There is no chance I will fly budget airline.”

Q snorted with amusement. “Snob,” he said affectionately.

“Perhaps.” Bond conceded, “no, probably, but can you imagine me having to squeeze myself into a budget seat?”

Q laughed at that. “I’ll see what I can do.” There was a knock on the door, one of Q’s minions to tell him Tennyson had arrived.

“Get me at least some legroom, and a free seat either side,” Bond muttered, cut off by the arrival of the junior agent.

Bianca Tennyson turned out to be an organised soul, who asked sensible questions. She had made up a fairly adequate, if boring cover for Bond (midlife crisis executive, on minibreak with his young mistress), and had an overly optimistic view of travel times.

There was nothing terribly wrong about her, and Bond prepared for the evening flight for Belgrade. He felt strangely relaxed about the mission, despite the destination they were heading to.

Making good on his promise, Q had made sure that Bond occupied an entire row of three seats to himself, and sat right up the front, where the ‘better’ seats were located with a little more legroom. At least he didn’t have to try and accommodated his arm with the next person squashed up right beside him, akin to a cattle transport.

Bianca was quiet all the way through, absorbed in her tablet, though she responded when Bond initiated a conversation, which happened rarely enough.

Their arrival in Belgrade was all that could be expected of a budget airline – on time and in one piece – and after they had collected their car at the hiring desk (Bond throwing his usual snit to get the car changed to a sleek silver BMW M6 automatic) they headed west to Sabac.

“Thank you D,” Bianca’s voice interrupted Bond’s train of thought, “I’ve just incorporated that into the intelligence plan and reformatted the progress chart.”

“D?” Bond asked, “which branch?”

“D’s from Analysis, where I used to be, but he’s just moved over to Q-branch support. He kept the initial. It’s less confusing for everyone and nobody had taken the designation at Q-branch.”

“Why did you leave Analysis?” Bond glanced across.

“Without being able to see the whole picture, I was never sure if I was even remotely accurate. I wanted more experience on the collection side of things.” She tapped and swished a few more times on the tablet. “There’s also not enough Russian speakers,” she said, honestly.

“How times have changed,” Bond shook his head, “in my day, height of the Cold War, Russian was a must-have.”

“Now everyone’s learning Arabic, Persian, and Chinese,” Bianca tilted her head, “not that the language program was ever fantastic to begin with.”

“True, that’s why they were lucky I came with the whole package.” Bond indicated and turned left towards the city centre. “You speak English, Serbo-Croat, and Russian?”

“And a little French, but I’d never pass for more than a tourist there. I’m the only native Serbo-Croat speaker, so I guess that’s why we’re here.”

Bond nodded. “Very true.” Why, he didn’t say; it wasn’t for her to know.

Gratifyingly, Bianca wasn’t someone who talked for the sake of sound, and they lapsed into silence, until an unexpected voice came over the joint feed.

“Fantastic flow chart,” Tanner said, “plots it all out magnificently. I didn’t know you were into this sort of thing, Bond.”

“I’m not,” Bond coolly replied while navigating the traffic, “this was all Junior Agent Tennyson’s work.”

A moment of silence. “Well done, Tennyson. Excellent work. I’d like to have a word with you when you get back, see if we can use it as a template.”

“Thank you,” Bianca seemed stunned.

“Tanner,” Bond sounded as amused as his facial expression looked, “you sound positively smitten.”

There were choking sounds on the other end, and muffled laughter. Tanner must have been standing at the open centre console in Q-branch. “I can appreciate good, organised work, Bond. Pay him no heed when he’s like this, Junior Agent Tennyson.”

“Of course not, Sir,” Bianca replied, while Bond was his most smug, albeit silent, self.

“Another sighting of the target this afternoon,” Q was clearly amused, “at a cafe in Sabac. I’ve sent details to both of you. You might like to have dinner there, the cevapčići and the cabbage rolls look excellent.”

“Good choice by the target,” Bond nodded, “I am quite partial to Balkan cuisine - if done well.”

“You’re quite partial to anything, Bond, _if done well,”_ Q commented drily.

“Can I help that I’m a man of taste?” Bond had a mock injured tone. “Off to this Balkan font of epicurean delights, then, Tennyson?” he asked, and pressed down on the accelerator.

“Of course, Sir,” she answered, as if she had any say in the matter.

* * * * *

The food was excellent, and their target absent, both as expected. Bianca got a few disapproving looks from the other patrons, but they were largely left alone. After dinner, they headed to the boutique hotel in the town that their target had taken residence in, and set up their base for the week.

Having chosen a suite, this time with adjacent extra room, their cover worked well to allow them sleeping in separate areas, as if they were mistress and lover, who pretended to be PA and boss.

“No bugs, Sir,” Tennyson informed the team over the feed after searching the suite. She hadn’t been as quick or efficient as Tom or Lucy, but she’d been thorough. Something that Bond had already noted: her inherent thoroughness, which went relentlessly into every detail and handled anything with utmost care and attention. Not the best for a field agent, but a characteristic that would had made her an excellent analyst - even more so since she was aware of the limitations of the analytical position.

“Good work, Tennyson,” Bond nodded, “I think we can both turn in.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

The next few days were the most relaxed Bond had ever enjoyed while in the field. Mostly meandering through the town and playing tourist. Bianca was doing the questioning, and Bond let the Serbo-Croat wash over him. It wasn’t a language he’d ever studied.

Leisurely boredom was interspersed with an array of charts, databases and tables that Bianca dealt with ‘as a favour’ for someone or other in HQ; and with glorious food and drink. There were glimpses of their target, but on the fifth day, there was sufficient evidence, confirmed with Q-branch, that they did not have the right man. Eventually, they conceded defeat, an outcome that didn’t surprise Bond in the slightest. Their flight from Belgrade was at noon, so that left plenty of time for a leisurely room service breakfast: preserving the image of lovers getting less cautious at the end of their holiday.

They had ordered breakfast the previous night, and Bond was still asleep when a knock on the door roused him.

“Commander Bond?” the voice was female, a faint Balkan accent. Bond froze in his bed.

Unexpected. Not fully awake. Unarmed against the sudden onslaught that dragged him back.

His heart rate sped up and his breathing hitched, then became shallow and fast, racing towards panic, as sweat broke out.

This time he fought back. His hand reached for the sling that wasn’t there. The ‘dog tag’ wasn’t there either. He almost couldn’t move, felt the restraints once again, and the pain, the terror, but he forced himself. Kept fighting, remembering what he had to do, had to grab hold of anything that could ground him.

He knocked the glass carafe off the bedside table, water spilling and glass shattering, but he got hold of his Patek watch and desperately closed his hand around it, until the metal dug into his palm.

Watch. Palm. Sensations. Here, now, present.

Present.

He didn’t know how long it had taken; how long the sensations had overwhelmed him. There was a louder knock on the door, the same voice, the same accent, but now he could hear the core: British, Londoner. Tennyson.

“Commander Bond? Breakfast is here.”

“Y...yes.” He focused on taking deep, slow breaths, until he managed to get himself together enough to speak. “Get the maid. I knocked over the glass carafe, splinters everywhere.” His voice was rough even to his own ears. Still clenching the watch in his fist, he’d come back from the brink on his own accord.

The door opened and Bianca stepped in. “Glass? Are you alright?” She was right beside the bed, and gently pushed aside the bigger bits with her foot.

“Yes, of course. I just miscalculated the angle.” Bond pushed himself up until he sat, slowly relaxing his fist. Unconcerned that he was naked, with all of the scars on display, and only an excuse of a sheet pooling in his groin.

Bianca stepped back, giving him a look that was somewhere between appreciative and embarrassed, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. Bond heard her on the phone, speaking in rapid Serbo-Croat, presumably to Housekeeping.

He opened his fist and gently placed the watch down onto the bed, before pulling the sheet up higher and reaching for his tablet. He’d fought the flashback, but he felt severely rattled and a long way from normal. Q would be the only one to get him grounded again. There wasn’t as big a time difference as with Thailand, only an hour, and Q would be awake.

“Q?” Bond was hoping he’d catch the secure line straight away.

“What is it?” Q appeared on the screen straight away. His hair was mussed, and he was adjusting his glasses. From the angle, he had grabbed the tablet from the bedside table and had just got up.

“I need you to turn the tags into a bracelet for me. Something I can have on me at all times. Nevermind what it looks like.”

“What happened?”

“I got caught out half asleep. I don’t wear the sling in bed. I don’t wear anything in bed, as you know.”

“What triggered it?” Q’s eyes were steady, ignoring the details about Bond’s sleepwear, or lack thereof.

“Female voice with Serbian accent, again. Seems to be a red herring.”

“Bianca?” Q confirmed, “well, at least we know that a female voice with Balkan accent is a consistent trigger. But you handled it. Did she notice?”

“No, I don’t think she did, even though I knocked the water carafe off the bedside table. Managed to get hold of my watch, hence the need for something I can wear permanently.” Bond sounded matter of fact, but he didn’t feel quite as calm as he pretended to be.

Q nodded, “or even an attachment to your watch.”

“Good point, I always wear a watch anyway.” Bond took in a deep breath. “At least the technique works.”

“Yes,” Q said, and there was a moment of silence. “Same as last time, with the shortness of breath?”

“Heart racing, shallow breaths that feel as if I can’t get enough oxygen, cold sweat, panic, frozen or locked muscles. Exactly the same.”

“Exactly the same,” Q echoed, “but shorter this time, and manageable? Do you think this is something that exposure can lessen, or is it always by surprise?” He paused. “Tennyson didn’t seem to have much of an accent, but I suppose she’s been there a week, and speaking Serbo-croat the whole time, so that’s where it’s coming from.”

“I was not awake yet, it caught me entirely off guard.” Bond didn’t comment on the other questions, because he simply didn’t have the answers, and it wouldn’t do to be speculating. “The important outcome for me is that I managed it.”

“Yes, you did,” Q smiled, and touched a finger to the screen, like he’d done before.

“Seems like this old dog isn’t too old yet to learn a few new tricks.” Bond smiled, finally easing, and tapped his own fingertip against Q’s on the screen. “Thanks for talking me back down.”

“Anytime,” Q’s voice was soft.

There was a commotion at the door, as Bianca let in the housekeeper. The woman headed towards Bond’s room with dustpan and vacuum cleaner.

“We have company,” Bond sighed. “My own fault, I asked for a maid to clean off the glass. I will see you when we’re back.” He gave a quick smile to Q, who smiled in return, before the screen went black.

Bond sat up in bed and quickly reached for his bathrobe. Just about managing to cover most of himself up. The woman gave him a brisk nod, and proceeded to do the clean-up efficiently. Bianca stayed at the door, beet red with embarrassment, until she went to usher the housekeeper out.

Now that it was safe to stand with bare feet on the floor, Bond got out of the bed without flashing poor Bianca once again. “Has the breakfast already been served?”

“Yes, waiting out here. I got a selection, one last proper Balkan meal before we head back.” She swallowed, and still averted her eyes. A fact that Bond caught on immediately.

“I’m fully covered now, Tennyson, it’s safe to look at me.” He flashed a smirk as he sat down at the table, dressing gown belt pulled tight. Positioning the useless arm in his lap, he looked over the breakfast spread.

“Sorry, Sir,” she said weakly. Sitting down on the other chair, she poured them both coffee.

Bond took a thoughtful sip. “Tell me, do you really want to become a field agent?”

She looked surprised, then sighed. “It’s not quite what I thought it was. It’s so...overwhelming. So much data.”

“I thought you didn’t like how you could never get the full picture. Is that not a contradiction?”

“There’s getting such a big picture that you can’t see the woods for the trees,” she stirred her coffee. “That’s going to be the case either way I go, isn’t it? Too much, or too little.”

“Not necessarily.” Bond reached for one of the freshly baked goods. “Have you spoken to Miss Moneypenny?”

Bianca looked at him as though he’d suggested she have a few words with the Pope. “No, not really, except when she was asking me to come meet you and the Director.”

“I could arrange a meeting for you, if you are interested. As the PA to the director, Miss Moneypenny requires access to all the data that she feels is necessary, and a thorough, detail-driven mind like yours would be perfect in dealing with data as well as schedules. Eve is the first person to tell you there is no shame in not being in the field. Fieldwork isn’t for everybody.”

Bianca’s eyes widened as she nodded. “Yes, Sir, I think that would be something well worth looking into. Meta analysis, really.”

“In that case, please get my tablet, I left it on the bed.” Heartily biting into the now thickly topped roll.

Bianca looked at him steadily, but then went and obeyed.

Bond didn’t say anything else as he tapped away on the tablet, until he had an open link to the person he’d been looking for. “Good morning, Tanner,” he cheerily said at the screen. “I have a proposition for you.”

Across the table, Bianca looked panicked, an expression echoed by Tanner, who was understandably wary of propositions from double-Os - especially former ones, and _especially_ the former 007.

“What now, Bond?” Tanner asked suspiciously.

“You really did like Tennyson’s charts, didn’t you?”

“They were excellent, as you well know. If only I could get all agents putting in documentation that clear.”

“Would you like to have such magical documentation and chart-producing skills at your disposal?”

“If only,” Tanner’s response was prompt. “I’d probably shag you, Bond, to get that, but Q would make my house explode.”

There was simultaneously laughter from Bond and a shocked gasp from Bianca. “Don’t make unfulfillable promises, Tanner. You are so straight, the Kinsey scale has to be re-adjusted for you. But joke aside, I am planning to suggest in my evaluation report that Tennyson should look at combining her expertise from Analysis and her interest in the full data picture, as well as her probably phenomenal scheduling skills, into a potential role as PA.” He paused for dramatic effect, “as PA to a certain Head of Staff.”

There was an intake of breath. “Send her to me after you debrief with M,” Tanner said after a pause. “Margery’s been itching to go back to the FCO and goodness knows I need someone to keep all of you in line.”

Bond looked up from the tablet and straight at Bianca. “Would that meet with your approval, Ms Tennyson?”

She was still staring at him, speechless, but nodded and managed a strained, “Yes.”

“Excellent, in that case, Tanner, you will meet with Ms Tennyson after debrief. Our flight is at noon.”

A spluttering Tanner asked, in a horrified voice “You mean you had her there?”

“Of course,” Bond smirked, “we are having breakfast.”

Tanner was still spluttering as Bond ended the call.

 


	9. Chapter 9

The trip back was uneventful, as was the return to headquarters. Debrief with M wasn’t for another two days, given the lack of urgency, which meant Bond completed Bianca’s evaluation forms at a leisurely pace, making sure he added all of his recommendations in a way that M wouldn’t be able to ignore. Not that anyone had ever been able to ignore Bond before.

He was just finishing up his comments when the door to his sparse office opened without warning. It was enough of a surprise to make him reach for his gun immediately.

“Hello, James.” Q stood in the doorway, eyebrows arched above the rim of his glasses, looking pointedly at the gun in Bond’s hand.

Bond snorted and put the gun down. “What are you doing here? I thought you never went anywhere, except your lair and the canteen.”

“I’m here to take you home.”

Bond’s eyebrows matched Q’s in his surprise. “Home? At this hour? What’s the ulterior motive?”

“So suspicious, it doesn’t become you.” Q remained standing at the door, his bag over one shoulder, holding his overcoat. “Just thought we’d have an early night.”

“That’s a remarkably early night at...” Bond checked his watch, “four-thirty PM.” He got up regardless, closing his tablet. “Does the early night include dinner?”

Q gave a small smile. “I thought we’d order in.”

Bond leered in return. “Excellent thinking. I suggest Thai.” He didn’t have a coat with him, merely closing one button on his suit jacket. “After you.” Tablet slipped under right arm and sling, he gallantly ushered Q out of the door.

They made their way to the garage, and then back home to Kensington with little fanfare, arriving to the questioning squawks of Mr Turing.

“Do me a favour and feed the evil beast to shut him up,” Bond pleaded as he stepped inside, after Q.

Mr Turing had already heard, and was waiting by his bowl. If his staff were going to disturb his routine by coming home early on a day he was at leisure, they ought to at least serve dinner at a more appropriate time.

Q smiled indulgently at the cat and filled up the bowl with gourmet cat food, while Bond busied himself in the kitchen area, preparing two coffees in the luxury machine. Q dumped the empty pouch of cat food in the bin, and rummaged in the drawer of takeaway menus before coming up with the Thai one.

“The usual?” he asked Bond, “or something you didn’t get to eat when you were in Phuket?”

“Why don’t I dare be adventurous, and you order for me.”

Q raised an eyebrow and dialled, ordering the red duck curry, pad thai, and satays.

“Good choice.” Bond offered a small smile, handing the steaming latte to Q, who occasionally indulged in other caffeinated drinks than tea.

Q took the beverage and sat down on the sofa, sipping his drink. “So,” he began, “this morning.”

“Yes,” Bond retorted calmly, “this morning.” He sat down with his double espresso. Placing the cup onto the table, he went about the somewhat laborious process of getting the useless arm out of the sling, then out of his jacket, before putting the sling back on and settling back in his seat.

Q knew better than to offer help, nor do anything until Bond had settled. “Any other after-effects? Any subsequent triggers?”

“I am tired, and it took me damned ages to fill in the report, but that is it.” Loosening his tie, Bond pulled the silk off and threw it onto the sofa, then opened the top two buttons of his shirt.

Q put his coffee down on the side table and moved closer, unbuttoning a few more. “Dr Guthrie working then? But you need to be careful around women who speak Serbo-Croat?”

“Hmmm,” the soft sound came right from the depth of Bond’s chest. “Yes to both.” He relaxed further into the seat, allowing better access to his shirt - and chest. “But I do need something metal on me at all times.”

“I’ve been thinking, maybe a magnetic attachment to the underside of your watch, which flicks out when a button is pressed. Might double as something else, lock pick collection or similar,” Q pondered out loud.

“Sounds promising, but don’t stop what you’re doing with your hand while your great big brain is in gear.”

Q snorted with amusement and slipped his hand inside Bond’s shirt, touching skin. “Looks like you passed whatever test M was going to set you.”

“Am I passing yours?”

Q tilted his head. “I wasn’t aware I’d set any.”

Bond smiled. “I know you. You have been concerned all this time, and you still are.”

“Course I am,” Q slid his hand across Bond’s chest, flicking a nipple, before coming to rest comfortably on the smooth, warm pectoral. “I want to know how it is going.”

“It?” Bond’s smile grew, “how _it_ is going?”

“You know,” Q groused and withdrew his hand, “your PTSD.”

“Ah,” Bond sighed, “but if you have to take your hand away, could you get me my coffee, at least?”

Q grabbed the coffee, but held it hostage. “So? Any other symptoms? Any other tension on the way back? Any flashbacks?”

Bond sighed again. He knew when avoidance would get him nowhere. Q could be as tenacious as a Rottweiler who’d got a burglar between his jaws. “Headache, coupled with nerve pain, but it’s unclear exactly what the cause was. They reacted to painkillers, though. Chest pain for the first hour of the flight, but it has eased since then and is almost gone now. No flashbacks, neither any other mental reaction.” He grimaced, “as a condemned man who has just found himself in the midst of the Spanish Inquisition, can I at least have my coffee now?”

Q held both Bond’s gaze for a few seconds, before handing over the drink. He kept his eyes squarely on Bond, though. “That’s all then?”

“That’s all.” Bond took a sip of his rapidly cooling espresso. “I am sure that my chest would feel much better if you put your hand back.”

Q gave him a hard look but moved closer anyway, sliding his hand back in between skin and cloth. “You think the voice-trigger will ever go?” he asked after a second. “It’s getting less specific at least, from the female nurses now down to specific accents.”

“Female nurses?” Bond had finished his coffee, empty cup balanced on the arm rest. “What about female nurses?”

“When you first woke up,” Q leaned against Bond’s good shoulder, “you’d fly into a panic whenever a woman spoke to you. They had to make sure that any talking was done by male doctors, nurses and orderlies until you’d woken up more.”

“Nobody told me.” Bond snaked his good hand around Q, holding him tight against his chest. “To answer your second question: yes, if I am honest, I don’t believe the trigger will ever fully go away, but I do believe I will be able to deal with it.”

Q leaned further into Bond. “No more hanging around sultry-voiced Eastern European females,” he said mock-sternly. “Just as well the Russians have been quiet lately.”

Bond huffed a soft laugh. “As if I were still keeping up with sultry-voiced females these days. As long as you don’t start speaking Serbo-Croat and turn into a woman, I’ll be fine.”

“I think I can safely promise ‘no’ to both,” Q settled in more comfortably.

Whatever Bond was going to say next was interrupted by the doorbell. Ordering before the dinner rush had its advantages, even though Bond didn’t think like that, if his disappointed expression was anything to go by.

“Promise me we’ll pick up where we left off, after dinner.”

Q smiled as he wriggled out from under Bond’s arm and headed towards the door. “As if I’d let you off so easily,” he said as he walked over to the door.

“I meant the undressing and groping part, not the Interrogation!” Bond called after him.

Mr Turing, meanwhile, jumped up onto the warm spot Q had vacated, curling up, and glaring at Bond as he usually did, with Bond glaring right back with a snarl.

Things were, Q observed as he returned from the door, takeaway in hand, right back to normal, except for Bond’s tanned, smooth skin tantalisingly displayed through the open shirt whenever he moved.

“We could eat in bed,” Bond offered semi-seriously, “naked.”

‘Na-ah,” Q said, perfectly seriously, “We’d never get sauce off the sheets.” He put the takeaway down on the side table, then went to their small kitchen for plates and cutlery. On his return, he picked up Mr Turing and deposited him on the floor (to the cat’s concerted opposition), then sat back down. “Satay first?” he asked Bond, already opening the box.

“Fine with me.” Bond took one of the forks, for a moment feeling a sense of disappointment that he’d never be able to use chopsticks again.

“I’m surprised you took the painkillers,” Q said conversationally, as they finished the Satay and moved onto the pad thai and duck curry, ignoring Mr Turing who had his eyes fixed on the boxes.

“I hate headaches,” Bond replied, as if it explained everything.

“But you actually took the pills,” Q repeated, then paused. “The nerve pain, is it better now?” Back to the topic like a terrier.

Bond groaned. “You’re never going to let anything go, are you?”

“Nope,” Q smiled.

Bond knew when he was beaten. Again.

“The nerve pain only really recedes with the painkillers that knock me out.”

Q frowned. “Are you still in pain now?”

“Do I look like I am?”

“I can never tell,” Q gave him a stern look, “because I bet that it’s always just a question of degree. So, correction, is the pain worse than usual now?”

Bond broke into a smile. “Whenever I think that I know you, you prove that you know me just as well, if not better.” He leisurely took another piece of duck and chewed slowly, before answering. “Yes. Yes, it is worse.”

Q didn’t return the smile, remaining solemn. “Would a massage help? After dinner, of course.”

“Perhaps, but I’m sure that sex would help even more.”

“You’d say that no matter how much pain you were in, so long as you weren’t bleeding, and even then only if you were in danger of bleeding dry.”

“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t say ‘let me take the painkillers and then let’s have slow sex and a massage until I fall asleep’, would I?”

Q swallowed audibly. “No, and that sounds like a great idea.” He looked down at his plate, surprised they’d finished dinner. “I’ll clean up, shall I?” he nodded at Bond’s empty plate.

He had learned to clean up takeaway straight away because Mr Turing tended to get into the leftovers to catastrophic effect.

“I’d like to say ‘don’t bother’, but if that blasted cat throws up on the bed again while I’m in it, I _will_ strangle it.”

The cat in question audibly hissed. Sometimes Mr Turing’s vocabulary tended to startle even Q, who sent Bond a disapproving look. “He won’t.” Q put the boxes into the bin, and the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher. “So, bedroom?”

Bond was already standing, and in his stealthy way, had come up behind Q. His voice at close quarters was startling. “Bedroom.” He held out his good hand. “Pills? They give me about half an hour before I get dizzy.”

Q went to fetch the pills from the medicine drawer in the kitchen, and a glass of water. “Half an hour, hm? We’d best make the most of it.”

“I haven’t had sex for _days_ , you bet I’ll make the most of it.” Pills and water quickly swallowed, Bond held out his hand again.

Q laughed as he took Bond’s hand and gently tugged him towards the bedroom. “Come on, then.”

“Your wish is _definitely_ my command.”

As they left, Mr Turing watched with a look of disgust. Finding nothing of Bond’s left in the living room that he could destroy, not even Bond’s tie that he had taken into the bedroom, the cat jumped up on the sofa, and grumblingly went to sleep.

 


End file.
